


Hue and Cry

by DoctorBilly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Reference to death, Trope: AU (Historical), letswritesherlock, reference to suicide, reference to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-02-10 16:16:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2031600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorBilly/pseuds/DoctorBilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A curious mudlark meets a kindly parish constable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hue and Cry

The morning was misty as the mudlarks went about their business. The smell of the Thames mud was rank, and the boy wrapped his tattered scarf around his face, covering his nose and mouth. He didn't want to let the disease-inducing miasma into his body. 

He wandered along the shore, searching for anything that could be put to use or sold for a few pence. 

He poked at likely objects with a stick; there were always pins and clay pipes, sometimes a rare glass bottle. Once, he had found a shilling, but it had been taken off him by the night watchman. He had been sorry to lose it, it had been pretty, with an elephant and castle on the back, and a king, he didn't know which one, on the front. He got a clip round the ear in return for it. Some days he found something a lot more interesting than clay pipes and pins. Today was one of those days. 

There was a body. A woman. Young. The boy looked carefully at her. She was fresh, not bloated. Not drowned. There were wounds. He could see that they had been made by a knife, not a sword, or an axe, or a razor blade. He was the son of a butcher, he could tell what a knife cut looked like. He looked around to see if anyone was about. He was insatiably curious, but didn't want anyone to see him being too interested in a corpse. 

The woman's clothing was disarranged. He looked closer. There was a long slash across her belly. He'd seen something like that before, when his Ma had died. Pa had started drinking after that. He'd taken his own butcher's knife to himself one night when the boy was asleep. 

The boy could see the woman was clutching something in her hand. He pulled it free. A bit of torn cloth. He stood up as he heard a sound behind him.

"Oy, you there. What you doing?"

The boy didn't wait to explain. He'd seen other boys taken and beaten for showing interest in things they weren't supposed to. He turned and ran for the river steps. He was fast, and knew how to move on the mud shore, how not to get bogged down. He was halfway up the steps when the man behind him shouted out what he was dreading.

"Stop! Thief!"

The boy carried on running, as people came out of houses and ran after him. He ran and ran, sobbing and gasping for breath. The crowd grew behind him. It was a civic duty to take up the hue and cry, and these citizens were doing a good job. 

The boy ran and ran. Straight into the blue-trousered legs of a parish constable, who grabbed him, one arm around his neck, the other round his waist. 

"Hold on, lad. Stop struggling now. There's a good lad…"

The citizens halted, milled around, one or two shouting, "thief", still. But the boy was in the hands of a constable. He would take him to the magistrate. Their job was done. The crowd dispersed. The entertainment of the day was over. 

"I didn't steal anything, constable. I didn't. There was a dead body. I was just looking at it…"

"What's that in your hand, lad?"

The boy groaned. He still held the piece of cloth he'd pulled from the dead woman's hand.

"She was holding on to it. I was just looking. I didn't mean to take it…"

He cried. He was only a little boy, just ten years old, and he was frightened. 

"Where do you live, lad?"

"Nowhere, constable. I move around. Don't take me to the magistrate, sir. Please. I'm not a vagrant. I'm not a thief. I work, I do…"

"I've seen you before, I think. You're a mudlark. I won't take you to the magistrate, lad. Not for a bit of old cloth. Come with me."

The constable wasn't surprised that the boy had run from the hue and cry. Any ten year old would. The boy was terrified. If he was convicted of stealing, he could be hanged, or more likely transported to the Americas. 

The constable took the boy home with him, made him wash his face and hands under the pump in the yard and sat him at his kitchen table. 

"Are you hungry, lad?"

"Yes sir."

The constable took a loaf of bread and a lump of cheese from the cupboard, cut off thick slices and set them in front of the boy. He put a jug of weak ale and two tin cups on the table. 

"I should give you milk, but I haven't got any. You could have water."

"Ale's safer. Or gin."

"Safer?"

"Yes, sir."

"Why's ale safer?"

"Don't know, but when everyone round our way had the flux, the brewery men didn't get it. They drink ale…"

"All right. Ale then. I'm not giving you gin. You found a dead body?"

"Yes sir. A woman. On the mud. Not drowned."

"How'd you know it wasn't a drowned body?"

"Wasn't bloated. She'd been cut open. They cut my Ma like that…"

"Like what, lad?"

"Her belly. To get the baby out. My Ma died. They had to get my baby brother out or he'd have died as well. He died anyway, but not straight away…"

"Where's your father, lad?"

"Killed himself. Too much gin. Cut his own throat. Shouldn't you look at the dead woman?"

"Not my job to investigate, lad. I'm just a constable. The Charlies will look into it. Why'd you take that bit of cloth?"

"I didn't mean to. I was going to put it back, but that fellow started shouting at me. I got scared and ran. I thought it looked like a bit of torn shirt or apron. Maybe she grabbed it. Maybe that's why she got the other cuts. Maybe she wasn't dead when they took her baby…"

"Hmm. You're a bright spark, aren't you? Give me your bit of cloth. I'll see the Charlies get it. I won't tell them I got it from you."

"Thank you sir. What'll happen to me now?"

"You can stay here. Work for me. Constabulary isn't full time work. I used to be a chemist, make medicines. I still have a few customers, even if they are all old ones. I could teach you. You'd be my apprentice. There's a little store room off the workshop you can sleep in. You'd have to learn to read, mind. You'd have to learn what's poisonous and what's not, what the different herbs and drugs do."

"Why would you let me stay?"

"I never had a son. My wife, my Martha, died before we had a family. I'm on my own. You're on your own. You'll be safe with me. And you'd learn a trade. What do you say?"

"All right sir. I'll work hard."

"What's your name, lad?"

"Phillip Anderson, sir."

"Right then, Phillip. When I'm in my constable's uniform you'll call me Constable Gregson. Otherwise, you can call me Mister Toby."

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in 1700. There was no police force, as we know it, but parishes would engage citizens to act as constables. They did not investigate crimes, their role was limited to taking criminals caught in the act into custody, moving on vagrants etc. Investigations were carried out by the Charlies, named after King Charles II, who were a force of watchmen. This was a time before the Bow Street Runners were formed.
> 
> Written for Let's Write Sherlock challenge 15


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